Jeff Shaara - The Frozen Hours

“You got this, then?”

Norman said, “Can you spare the shovel? The kid needs the exercise.”

Riley handed the shovel to Morelli, could tell he was shivering, his words in a chatter.

“Thanks, Pete. You’ll get it back.”

“I better.”

Morelli dropped the shovel, and Riley could see him fumble to retrieve it, his hands shaking. He put a hand on Norman’s shoulder. “You get done here, I’d get him into his bag pretty quick.”

“The sarge already told me. We’re about finished. I’ll take care of him; you worry about Irish over there.”

Riley turned, saw Killian standing tall in front of the foxhole, realized now the snow had stopped, a hint of moonlight reflecting off the thin carpet of white. Riley moved that way, saw that Killian had no coat.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Drying off. Best way. The wind gets rid of the sweat in a couple minutes.”

“It’ll get rid of you, too. Get in the damn hole.”

Killian kept his pose, arms outstretched, and Welch was there now, said, “Oh, for Chrissakes. He’s bucking for the company’s dumb-ass award. Put your coat on, Irish. I need your rifle even if I don’t need you.”

Riley looked at the weapon in Welch’s hands. “Your carbine working okay?”

“Not worth a damn. The lieutenant figures we’re down to single shot. Kane’s BAR is fouled up, too. There’ll be no more gun cleaning. The lieutenant’s really pissed at himself, says he knew better than to order us to wipe everything down. He’s going down the line, checking every piece. Check yours.”

Riley raised the M-1, worked the action, replaced the clip. “Seems okay.”

Killian was down in the hole now, pulling on his coat. “Already checked mine. Thought about firing off a clip, but I’d probably start a Fox Company war. Some of these kids are nervous as hell.”

Welch patted Riley on the shoulder. “You take first watch. Anything to keep him quiet for a couple of hours.”

Welch moved off, dropping low at the next hole, more instructions, his words swept away by the wind. Riley looked up, the clouds drifting past the moon, said, “Well, you were right about the snow, I guess. Maybe you’re not as stupid as everybody thinks.”

Killian curled up tight inside his bag, and Riley knelt, his own bag wrapped around his legs. He leaned the rifle up on the mound of fresh dirt, already frozen hard. He felt a stiff crust on his face, and he blinked painfully, his sweat freezing over every part of him. He wiped at his eyes with the rough sleeve of his coat, a useless effort, dried tears digging into his skin. He cupped his hands over his face, blew a breath, a quick burst of warmth, rough gloves clearing his vision. It wasn’t perfect, but he could see down the broad hill, the thin layer of snow barely masking the brush, uneven ground. He pulled the bag up farther, nearly to his waist, touched the rifle, reassuring, one hand pulling the hood of his parka as tight as it could go. But the wind was relentless, numbing cold on his cheeks, more tears clinging in icy flakes around his eyes. He avoided looking upward, but the moonlight told him the clouds were nearly gone, the hillside below him brighter still.

FOX HILL—NOVEMBER 28, 1950, 2:30 A.M.

They had changed shifts, each man welcoming the opportunity to dig down deep into the relative warmth of his sleeping bag. Riley was up again, the cold deadening his senses as it deadened his arms. If his feet weren’t warm, at least he could wriggle his toes, the bag still pulled up over his legs. The challenge again was to keep the tears in his eyes from freezing, the hood pulled as tight as possible, as long as it allowed him to see some part of the hillside below. He took the watch very seriously, had known men in the last war who cost lives by falling asleep or focusing more on their own cigarette than on who else out there might see the glowing ash. The officers drove home the punishment for that, of course, a part of every man’s training. Falling asleep on watch was punishable by death, though he had never known anyone to carry that out. More likely, a man who fell asleep might be executed by a stealthy enemy.

He had slept for most of his allotted two hours, knew that Killian took his watch just as seriously. If a man could not completely trust his buddy, there wasn’t much sleep to be had, especially where the enemy preferred a nighttime assault. For all of Killian’s annoying traits, Riley had come to depend on him when it counted most, even if Welch seemed to despise the man.

He looked down at the dark mound in the hole beside him, a hint of snoring, the only other sound but the blustery wind. He tried to measure the time in his mind, thought, Maybe another half hour to go. Hamp will tell me. He crawls around these holes like some kind of rat, popping up when you need him to. He won’t let Sean get one minute more sleep than he deserves. He stared to the front again, squinted against the wind, the breeze finding its way down his neck. Damn it all, he thought. Who thought climbing up here, out in the wide damn open, was so damn necessary?

He looked to the side, saw the shadowy forms leaning out above the edges of foxholes all along the hillside, hidden only partially by the low clusters of brush. We’ll lose somebody to frostbite tonight, he thought. There’s always one, too stupid to follow orders, who knows better than the brass. And they’ll peel him away from his socks and chop off his damn feet. The thought made him shiver, and he flexed his toes again, the regular routine, every few seconds testing just how much protection the sleeping bag was giving him. His mind had begun to wander aimlessly, nonsensical, no distraction but the steady blast from the wind. The image of his wife floated past, but that only made him miserable, all that he was missing, all that was waiting for him, and he pushed hard at that, his brain finally settling on a more obvious misery, the cold, how cold, where it might be colder. Hate to be an Eskimo, he thought. They live in this crap all the time. I guess. How the hell do you build an igloo? No Eskimos in this outfit. Maybe one of the new guys. Boy, I bet they’re having a peach of a time, right out of Pendleton. Southern California. Welcome to frozen hell, children.

The replacements had continued to come, arriving in trucks even in Hagaru-ri, brought along with some of the men from the First Regiment. They’re here right now, he thought. Second Platoon got some of ’em. There’s that one big kid, bigger than Killian, another New Jersey kid. Cafferino, Cafferata, something like that. Football player, they say. I guess he’ll be good if we mount a charge. Killian’d be good at that, too. Something a little nuts about big guys. Wonder what the Chinese think about that? They’re not as puny as the Japs, most of ’em. They must think we’re strange, all those big guys. Or maybe we just make easier targets. All right, you idiot, think of something else.

He forced himself to stare down the wide hill, blinked through the crust around his eyes, the tears forming a film of ice against his cheeks. There was a hard shout back behind him, shattering the silence, and he spun around, numb fingers on the rifle. He saw now a shadowy shape, moving fast, a full run toward him, then up and over, hard footsteps on the icy ground. Riley felt his chest thundering, swung around, tried to see down the hill, nothing there, heard laughter, close by, another of Welch’s squad.

“Holy Christ! You see that?”

Riley wanted to respond, his hands quivering, a hard grip on the rifle. Another man responded now, closer, the voice of Welch.

“It was a deer. Sure as hell. Caught a good look when it jumped. Hey, Pete. You see that?”

Riley felt a nervous laugh rising up inside of him, the ice in his chest relaxing. “Yeah. Jumped right over me. Scared hell out of me.”